


The Draw

by kuultaseni



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sherlolly - Freeform, Strange narrating, Supernatural Elements, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuultaseni/pseuds/kuultaseni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Sherlock Holmes' journey to find his heart as told by Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Draw

**Author's Note:**

> Wow!!!!!!!!!! What a ride!!!!!!! I finished the first chapter!!!!!!!!!!! Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I've been working on this thing ever since I finished college at the end of June, and I've only managed to finish the first chapter. And it's still not good oh gdod 
> 
> The title is inspired by the song of the same name by Bastille and narration inspired by The Book Thief, and thanks to rock.rapgenuis.com for telling me stuff
> 
> Also, I don't know Mycroft's real name, so I made it up - if Sherlock is called William, then I shall stick with Kings of England. Also I don't own anything recognisable, everything belongs to their respectful owners: Thompson, Gatiss, Moffat, Conan-Doyle and yeezus.

I meet Sherlock Holmes three times in his life, excluding his actual death. He and I would have been good friends if he weren’t such a good soul; he denies his good heart, he denies that he even has one, but everyone around him knows that this is not true. Humans have always baffled me, but none more than William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was... different, he was interesting, and I couldn’t help but watch his life evolve in front of my eyes. I admit he was mesmerising, and I learned a great deal more with him than I learned from anything else.

The first time I meet him is when he’s only 27 with prominent cheekbones and paper-thin skin, he had just finished his Natural Sciences course at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, with a Master’s in Chemistry (his paper was compelling and it’s no surprise that he thought himself a genius) and recently found comfort in narcotics, girls, and alcohol. Oh how he wished to ruin his life.

He was a brilliant man, I acknowledge that, he was one of the greatest chemists I’ve ever had the privilege to come across – no one could ever replace Fritz Haber, truly the most astonishing and amazing man – but he was not fine. His own brother neglected him for 9 years (not intentionally, the British Government kept him from personal pardons), his parents only called once a month, and he had no friends. That’s not true, he had Victor Trevor, but Victor was in Germany building his career and studying astrophysics – Mr Trevor doesn’t count. So all I saw was the disintegration of a remarkable man with a magnificent mind and the silhouette of loneliness following his every step. See, I’m not allowed to interact with the living or the dying or the ones that want to live but don’t try hard enough, I have to simply wait for them to come to their senses and make a decision – though I am Death, I do not want souls, I do not like the dead.

And Sherlock Holmes was one of the souls that I refuse to take.

What surprises me is when his older brother, Henry Mycroft Scott Holmes (honestly the two remaining Holmes brothers absolutely loathed normalcy) or ‘Mycroft’, decides to finally help him. I should have seen this coming, after I welcomed Nicholas Holmes, Mycroft would be immensely overprotective towards his little brother – there’s always something.

“Oh, Sherlock,” I hear Mycroft breathe with a shaking voice. Oh dear, Mycroft what happened to your beliefs about sentiment? “What have you done?”

I stagger behind him and move to see the room that Sherlock was currently lying in. The younger Holmes was on his bed, two small empty bottles of pure vodka on his bedside table, an ashtray by the window and clothes scattered everywhere. I wondered where the carpet was for a brief second.

Without a second thought, the elder Holmes wraps an arm around his younger brother’s neck and pushes him to sit in an upright position. How endearing, two emotionally inept and detached brothers together in one room, one of them checking the other’s pulse whilst the other struggles for consciousness. I could feel Mycroft’s concern and terror radiating from him, het smelled of fear and regret.

“Sherlock, wake up.” That didn’t work causing Mycroft Holmes to pull his own hair, take a deep breath and try again. After several unsophisticated attempts, the elder Holmes was not having it lucky; Sherlock was simply too frozen and completely disconnected from the present to wake up.

I could feel a cool wind sweep over my shoulder; involuntarily I open my hands and wait for the unlucky soul that is Sherlock Holmes to land into my palms. I could close my hand and give him his life back, but it’s not my decision whether or not an organism dies; Sherlock had to chose. I could feel his uncertainty, his thoughts whirling faster than the speed of light around me; I could feel his soul starting slip from my hands. And that was the moment I knew Sherlock would live in my wall of greats.

He returns to consciousness, only just but it makes Mycroft’s heart jump (whatever heart Mycroft Holmes has). The older man quickly jumps to action; he drags his brother out of the room and into a sleek, black Rolls-Royce before returning for some necessities and driving off on the quickest route to London. He knows he is only allowed a limited time and he rushes, his heart pumping blood so fast he was sure his aorta would collapse under the high pressure.

“Mycroft, I’m going to be sick,” Sherlock mumbles some forty minutes later. And I watch him curiously, not an hour ago, he was ready to welcome me, I could feel his very being preparing itself for my embrace and now, he was trying to fight me. Should I be angered or awed?

“We have half an hour left, can’t you wait?” Mycroft snaps, the crack in his voice so evident that even Sherlock could hear it through his semi-conscious state. He’s angry and has every reason to be, but he always had bad timing, his logic was bad, no wonder he easily secured a place with the British Government. However, why he chose to help his brother now was what puzzled me; why only currently, when his reputation was beginning and not before when his brother was so determined to leave his life?

My conclusion is that Mycroft Holmes is a selfish man and cares for his only brother in order to remain human.

“You ignore me since you leave for university, you didn’t even stay for my graduation. You pull over now or so help me God, brother,” Sherlock threatens in a low, dark, raging voice. He’s glaring at his older brother, he wants to pierce holes in his head, rip his face off if he does not comply – Sherlock Holmes was the violent type and not afraid to make anyone writhe in his presence.

I decide to leave them there; I did not need to know what happens afterwards. But my sibling tells me anyways, they say that Sherlock is in recovery and is ready to meet her.

“Who?” I ask.

“You know who,” my sibling says in a gentle tone. I wish I was gentle sometimes, like them but I’m not and I never will be. “Molly Hooper.”

 

* * *

 

Two years and two weeks in and out of rehab, Sherlock has officially overcome his ways and decides to pick up his life. He has a Master’s in Chemistry; a Bachelor’s in Natural Sciences, so finding a job was easy enough for him. The first job he applies to be a clinical assistant at St Bart’s Hospital, to work under the care of a new specialist registrar and a consulting clinical pathologist, and he tries his best to earn this job.

“It’s tedious but not tedious enough to drive me away,” he explains over a game of Jenga with Mycroft. “I start tomorrow.”

Mycroft busies himself with a Jenga block before replying to his brother. “Good, it’s time you finally got your life in check.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes before placing a block on the top. “Always the emotionally constipated, brother,” he says.

“What would you like me to say, Sherlock?” Mycroft exclaims, leaning back on the wooden chair of the kitchen table. If I thought the sight of watching the two Holmes playing a wishy-washy board game was amusing, then Mycroft’s ironic ‘congratulations’ was laughable. Anyone from a hundred mile radius could detect his praise and pride for his younger brother. If anything, Mycroft found it unbelievable that his brother was even alive and breathing and playing Jenga.

“I wish Nick was here,” Sherlock mumbles under his breath, leaning his chin on his intertwined hands. Ah, the sensitive spot; the forbidden forest of the Holmes family; the elephant in the room that was flying over their heads, the chamber of secrets – no one ever mentions Nicholas Holmes except me. Mycroft went from hurt to induced anger to heart broken; Sherlock remained melancholy and I realise how important Nick Holmes was. Now I wish I hadn’t made the eldest Holmes son welcome into the inevitable, I wish that I could have persuaded him to remain in the world, because his soul was too heavy, too fresh and too full of good, definitely more than Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s put together.

“Right, then I’ll just get going,” Mycroft mutters sharply and leaves faster than his announcement, leaving Sherlock sitting on the wooden chair and watching the Jenga tower.

 _Sherlock Holmes’ thoughts:_ **Nick.**

If I dive into those waters, I would drown and I don’t want to experience the dangerous currents of Sherlock’s heart or what he calls his mind (after all, the heart only pumps blood around the body, just a machine, it’s the brain that makes the feeling of love possible, surely everyone knew that), and I would be what my sibling deems as ‘interfering.’ So I back away and leave him for the night, I would go visit this Molly Hooper who had a pretty ordinary life and a pretty ordinary personality, but was made for great things. She was after all, the one who decided to hire the great Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

“You must be the new clinical assistant, Sherlock, right?” Dr Mike Stamford happily booms, shaking hands with the man and ushers him into the laboratory of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. “I’m Mike Stamford, I teach immunology to the medicine students and clinical microbiology to graduates. You’ll be working with Molly or Dr Hooper, but she prefers Molly, she’s the new specialist registrar and is fantastic too. She’s about your age too, I think just three or four years difference-“

“Where should I put my things?” he interrupts, already annoyed with Mike. It’s as if Sherlock had developed little tolerance for people who babbled on about pointless things. Looks like Life was wrong, Sherlock and Molly were not ready to meet yet, and if they did, all hell would just break lose (or so that’s the expression).

“Locker room,” Mike answers in his still cheerful tone. What a great man. “Anyway, Molly will be here soon and she’ll give you an introduction to the lab since Mike-“ he chortles, “- is needed in the cancer institute all day for a meeting. The locker room is past the offices and is mainly red and blue; you can’t miss it. But have a good first day, Sherlock, I’m late for immunology.”

Sherlock sighs in relief, now he could get to work and actually start doing something. A few seconds after, he hears light, hurried clacking of brogues and a small squeak of surprise – and when he looks towards the source of the sound, the galaxies start their symphony. It was extremely rare for Life and Death to bring two creatures of the same species together; it was the ultimate masterpiece. Two souls that were crafted for each other would live together and die together hand in hand – and when this occurrence happens, the universe stands still for a second or so to catch a glimpse. It was valuable, perhaps the most breath-taking event in history, and I always got front row seats.

She smiles timidly at him and moves to place her things in the locker room, and Sherlock, he was busy studying her, or as the chemists do it: he deduces her. First, he conducts the experiment, collects qualitative data, states observations before finally deducing the reaction, and I could almost read his thoughts, such lovely, soppy thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes’ internal feelings: Probably the most brilliant doctor he ever-laid eyes on.

He really should be careful with his impressions.

“Hello,” she greets after she shuts her locker and has her lab coat and badge on. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

My stomach does tumbles as she says his name, how I wish Life were here.

“Yes, hello,” he offers stupidly. My, my, one of the greatest minds of his generation reduces to puddle in the sight of a woman, how very telling. “And you’re Molly or Dr Hooper?”

She chuckles sweetly and I don’t miss Sherlock’s look of admiration (already in love, Holmes?). Molly ties her long, auburn hair into a ponytail then grabs a white coat for him. “I’ll show you around the lab; I’ve got 15 minutes before my shift actually starts,” she says with a smile that was as bright and as warm of the sunshine rays. “Nice glasses, by the way.” She likes the glasses, despite the fact that he looks like a complete and utter nerd, and he likes the fact that she likes the glasses, despite how much he denies it.

He puts the lab coat on, clipping his badge on the pocket and adjusting his glasses self-consciously. I wonder how long the Ode to Sherlock and Molly will last; the universe is still conducting a soft orchestra and waiting to build a crescendo. But both Life and I control the two poor, awkwardly matched souls and we will protect them with all our integrity.

 **Three things I know about Molly Hooper:  
** **1\. Molly is extraordinary, more than Sherlock himself.  
** **2\. She doesn’t think she counts.  
** **3\. Sherlock Holmes will go to her time and time again, and she will save his life without question.**  

 

* * *

 

 

The tour of the lab and the morgue lasts for a little over 30 minutes, and is not filled with him asking any questions, but rather him trying to deduce her into simple molecules. She’s normal, has a normal family, normal life, a strange job and is pretty well rounded plain, that’s what frustrates him – no one could be so conventional and still intrigue him. Only if he could see how important she was to him, then all he had to do was read her whole life and perhaps marry her.

Molly teaches him how to use certain chemicals, how to operate the computers, how to label samples, dispose properly of the samples and take blood swatches from patients (disastrous, but he is precise, he has after all had training with heroin), all the while he actually listens to her and allows her to make jokes even though he doesn’t laugh at any of them. What I want to know was why he wasn’t sick of her yet, Mike Stamford rambled on less than she did and Sherlock was ready to chuck him to the side. I didn’t know because Sherlock himself didn’t know, but I concluded with Life that we think he was more than in love with her – he was invested.

Which would explain his curiosity with her, well, everything.

When she announces that she needs to get to work, he allows her but stays near to observe her work – he has had numerous experience with labs, and he knows exactly what different diseases and viruses look like and their biochemical properties, but he listens to her explain it to him simply because he liked how intellectual she was. Molly Hooper was perhaps smarter than the incredible Sherlock Holmes.

“Here’s a blood sample of Greer McKinley, she has sickle cell anaemia; could you put this in a tube and then place it in the fridge?” Molly says as she cleans her lab bench, and Sherlock is preparing a slide for her. It was nice to see the two work together in perfect harmony; I could still hear the sweet melody of the cosmos, Victor Trevor was probably having the time of his life listening to the orchestra. Just watching the two – who had only known each other for a little over one hour – was like observing two goldfishes swim around in an aquarium.

“Sure,” he answers, politely may I add. He doesn’t contradict her, he doesn’t frown behind her back, he doesn’t even sigh in exasperation, and he was content to follow her. What a salute.

“I don’t think we’re expecting any dead bodies today, so I suppose you could help me with Mrs Lancaster’s cancer diagnosis,” she adds as he goes into the small chemical lab. “If you want to help, that is.”

He emerges from the small chemical room and smiles civilly that it shocks me to the core. “I’d love to. By the way, where’s your supervisor? Aren’t you supposed to be supervised all the time?”

“Yeah, but Mike is in a meeting all day, so I have to handle diagnosis today. And all the other pathologists are doing surgery at the moment,” she answers sweetly and shrugs her shoulders. Maybe we chose someone too sweet for the cold-hearted clinical assistant, maybe we chose someone whom he didn’t deserve and we may have to look elsewhere. But they were such a good match.

“So where are you from, Sherlock?” That’s a good girl.

“Why?” he asks, walking back to stand next to her and continue working on her slides and samples.

“We’re colleagues now, so I suppose we should at least get to know each other.”

His face was contoured in such a precise and decisive way that I could completely hear his thoughts. No one, in his whole 29 years of breathing, had ever wanted to ‘get to know him better.’ He knew everyone better than they knew themselves, and he was never afraid to show how much of a genius he was towards them. But no one had ever deduced him, read his life or even read his expressions; he knows that almost everyone he came across hated him, and he didn’t mind (they were, after all, so bloody incompetent compared to him, I almost smashed a vase), he also knew that as long as he continued his deductions, no one would ever like him.

And then comes along the petite and very brilliant Molly Hooper.

She was made for grand things.

She was going to be the grandest thing that would happen to Sherlock.

“I’m from Woolsthorpe-by-Colsterworth, in Lincolnshire,” he answers reservedly. “Where Newton was also born.”

“Are all geniuses born there?”

He laughs for the first time since God almighty knows how long. “Yes, I suppose so. I can’t exactly deny that I am a genius.”

 

* * *

 

Flash-forward six months later, Sherlock is much more cold towards Molly, especially since she started seeing that stupid excuse of a man, Leonard something. But Leonard was just a detour; Sherlock was the destination, except the journey was taking forever. I admit that even I was getting annoyed just watching the two beat around the bush for the past six months, however, according to my sibling, I would be ‘interfering’ once again and that whatever I do, I would just make matters worse. However Life did not disagree with me when I said they were taking longer than evolution.

It was a little after 11 in the evening when Sherlock finishes tidying the lab – a wonder of wonders – and hears the muffled ‘fuck!’ followed a small hiss of pain. If one of the bodies decided to get up and start walking around the hospital, Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do – he hadn’t prepared for a zombie apocalypse just yet. I follow him into the lab, and we are both in shock to see the little pathologist clutching her red hands and cursing under her breath.

“Molly?” Sherlock calls out in concern and she whirls around so fast I was afraid she’d break her spine. He steps next to her, places his satchel on the ground and pulls a chair to sit down on. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m doing some extra analysis, I’ll be fine, I accidentally cut my palm from clutching the slide,” her words come out fast and I struggled to keep up with what she was saying. Sherlock on the other hand, perfectly understood her as he nods, then gives her some paper towels and a gauze wrap to bandage her hand.

“And back to my original question; what on earth are you doing?” He watches her clean her hands under running water but doesn’t move from his seat.

“Something’s been bugging me for the whole day and I couldn’t – Sherlock, it’s fine, go home, you’ve had a long day.” This wasn’t going to go well at all.

“Molly...”

I know that I spoil a lot of the fun sometimes, but this was something that I wish I didn’t know. I’d take this moment back and I would make it disappear, but I’m Death. I don’t ever forget.

“No, just go, please.”

He finally peeks into the microscope as she dries her hand and wraps it with the gauze wrap, intentionally avoiding looking at him; he hears the hiss of distress and glances at her to see that her cheeks started to glisten. “Molly, whose blood sample is this?” he asks, his tone leaving no room for excuses. It scares Molly, I can see it in the way she flinches when he says the last word, but what probably scares her more is the fact that she is opening up to someone about her life. The one thing that Molly Hooper will be forever mistaken about: her life matters, and it will matter until the end of time.

“My brother’s,” she answers after a minute or so of silence and I want to congratulate her for her courage. “He’s 18, and he’s been having symptoms of-“

“Emphysema,” Sherlock finishes and takes a good long look at the microscope. These brainy science-y people will be the death of me; sometimes I wished I could understand what they were going on about. “He has a deficiency in a certain glycoprotein and you were going to run a test on one before you accidentally cut yourself. I can tell you that-“

“He’s lacking in A1AT, I know,” she finishes for him in a whisper. She does something to me, I don’t know why. She crushes my imaginary heart, and I know she crushes his metaphorical one as well. It was so obvious; how could she not see it?

Sherlock remains silent, he observes her but does not deduce. It would be wrong to deduce her, especially when she’s been nothing but kind to him. It was very heart breaking to say the least.

“I’m-“

“No, don’t even dare say it, Sherlock, please don’t.”

He looks at her, his rainbow eyes flooding with both confusion and hurt.

“This hospital is full of dying people, Sherlock, why don’t you go say your apologies to them?” she snaps. The confusion in his crumbles into ashes, and is now full of despair, sympathy and lost hope, he makes a move to stand up but she continues on. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he says, placing one hand on the lab bench to help him stand up steadily. “Are you alright, Molly?”

She looks up at him, and all her anxiety washes over her eyes, it creates a tsunami and for once, I wish that I wasn’t the one to take Peter Hooper’s last breath in a matter of two or three years. If Sherlock was going to do something, he better bloody do it now; he was standing by his chair, right hand on the lab bench, and left hand limply by his side. He examines her, and watches her place her hands over her eyes giving into her tears; you could almost hear his figurative heart shattering to pieces. This was a woman he loves, standing in front of him, with pure sorrow in her body, and there he was standing awkwardly by the microscope, pondering about what he should do.

Comfort her, you twat.

“Um...” he starts, slowly taking three steps towards her. “Molly?”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she frantically apologises again, wiping her eyes hastily and pressing her lips into a thin line to stop herself from crying any further. He takes two more steps until he is in front of her; he gives her a pat on the shoulder, before he tenderly wraps his arms around her neck. He then pulls her into him and when she finally snaps back into reality, she squeaks to find herself in the arms of Sherlock Holmes with him cradling her head.

It was only a forty seconds later when she wraps her arms around his waist, and she thinks it feels so good to have someone comfort her, care about her and want to make her feel better. And like always, Molly does not take the embrace for granted but she firmly plants it in her head that this would be the last embrace she would ever get from him. She doesn’t know the effect she has on Sherlock Holmes, and this stamps my heart.

If you forget the fact that he was extremely unfriendly towards her for the past three months, you’d think that the embrace was the sweetest, most amazing occasion ever. But it’s not. Because he is a jealous prick, he made rude remarks about her appearance, commenting on her weight, and purposely deduced that Leonard in an effort to drive the poor sod away. Sherlock ignored her if Leo was in the room, he ignored her when Leon left the room, and he ignored her if she ever talked to him about Leonard something – he was every bit the brooding teenager that had no idea how to speak to a girl.

“Do you want to go home and I’ll finish the test?” His offer surprises her – and me, I should have seen it coming – so much so it makes her gasp quietly. She doesn’t look up; instead she clasps her hands on the back of his coat, and squeezes him hard.

“No, you’re finished, you go home and I’ll clean up,” she mumbles into his shirt.

“I insist,” he states.

“We can work on it together then.” A compromise, something that Sherlock likes.

He smiles and unwraps her from his figure. “Deal,” he mutters. And just like that, he turns cold again. The feeling of Molly Hooper around his body was enough to make him feel like a normal human being again, her arms wrapped around his waist whilst her face was buried in his chest, so very close to his heart. The radiating warmth of her was too surreal, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. Some things do take time.

I watch as they finish the test in silence, Sherlock happy to follow her and clean up after her, probably thinking that this was the most sentimental he would ever get in his life. It was a deed of good, a favour for a friend, ‘the least I could do’ excuse.

 **Three things I always observe from Sherlock and Molly:  
** **1\. Sherlock is fond of Molly, and looks at her the way he looks at constellations.  
** **2\. Molly has a small crush on Sherlock, and is not afraid to admit it to herself.  
** **3\. Sherlock and Molly were the most perfect pieces of awkward souls intricately woven together into a frame to grow the most beautiful flowers in.**

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is back to his normal self around Molly a week later, she shares with him that Leonard was not ‘the best guy’ to handle her emotionally and I swear that nerd jumped to the heavens. He was more cheerful around her, he didn’t insult her anymore or demand that she overlooks his preparations; he was just content and back to his idiosyncratic ways. Until Mycroft decided to pop in unexpectedly on a Tuesday – especially the day that Sherlock did not want him to come in.

“Yeah, Sherlock’s an angel,” Molly teases and chuckles at her own irony. She’s chatting with Mycroft and it’s so much more interesting to watch than Sherlock be wrapped up in preparing blood samples. “He’s doing well recently, I don’t know what happened but it’s like he did a complete 180.”

“He tends to have mood swings like a teenager, I’ve always suspected that he hasn’t grown out of that childish phase – I predict it’s a youngest child factor,” Mycroft adds, his umbrella carefully placed on the lab chair with his hands in his expensive trouser pockets. “But I do need to speak with him, Miss Hooper, where is he?”

She points to a wooden door with a long, single rectangular window, “He’s in there just putting away the blood samples, I think he secretly enjoys the job, even if he says it is boring.” Just as Mycroft was going to ask Molly a question, Sherlock walks out of the chemical room, his bespectacled eyes landing on his brother. And as I looked towards the elder Holmes, I see him trying to suppress his tearing chest.

“Sherlock, I need to speak with you,” Mycroft Holmes says through his tightening ribcage. It brings back memories, and I could see them all vividly; no matter how emotionally restricted both Holmes brothers were, they were quite sentimental whenever they were reminded of Nick. And as I watch Mycroft’s eyes, I know that he has seen his elder brother in the form of his younger one.

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t have come,” Sherlock states, rolling his eyes and disposing of his gloves. He turns to Molly, completely by-passing his brother, “Molly, I’ve stored James Langley’s samples in a box, if you need them just tell me. Right now would be beneficial.”

Molly shakes her head at him and walks towards the wooden door. “No, your brother needs to talk to you, I can give you a few minutes.” And with that, she disappears into the chemical room, leaving the two brothers standing in the lab with high tensions and mind guns at the ready.

“What is it, Mycroft?” Sherlock exclaims irritated and moves to stand in front of the computer. “Come here to take me away again? Or ask me for cakes?”

The elder Holmes gives a forced, political and condescending chuckle at the last remark, but ignores it (he was admittedly in love with cake and would rather ignore it than confess to it). “I see that Miss Hooper has accommodated you well at St Bart’s. By the end of the year, I expect a wedding invitation, Sherlock.”

“Can you just get on with it?” Sherlock turns and glowers at his brother, because how dare the British Government intrude on his privacy.

“Miss Hooper-“

“Doctor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s Doctor Hooper, brother dear,” Sherlock spits the two last words in annoyance (no one under-estimates Molly Hooper, ever), “She’s in her second year of training, and she deserves the acclaim.”

Mycroft gives another political and condescending chuckle, only this time with a hint of amusement. He was finding Sherlock’s attachment laughable; especially when he’s emphasised countless times that caring was not an advantage. “I see you’ve become fond of your pathologist, brother mine, only in six months and she’s suddenly worthy of your trust? Might I even go as far as – “

“No.”

“ – saying that you are in love with... Doctor Hooper?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft,” Sherlock announces with aggravation, plainly denying the statement, and blatantly showing that he will continue to deny so. “I work for her, I have to be kind to her or else I’ll have to leave Bart’s.”

“But you don’t like people.” Mycroft has struck a nerve there, because I see Sherlock’s head reeling. “You said yourself you only wanted this job because it feels your basic scientific needs, why would you settle on a job that did not stimulate your mind? That is after all why you chose to-“

Sherlock’s face turns into an expression of raging anger, and he hisses in a low voice, “That was the past, Mycroft. And I swear if you tell her – if you tell her about it, I will not be forgivable.”

“And why would you care, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, stepping to stand next to his brother, not to be intimidating but definitely not to sympathise with him. He is eye level with Sherlock, so they are neither below nor above each other – they are simply equal. “After all, Molly Hooper is not the least bit important to you. I thought you preferred work over your heart.”

Sherlock looks down, ignores what Mycroft said about his pathologist, but can’t ignore the truth that his brother speaks of; Molly Hooper was interesting, and dare he say that he wants to keep her close, but he can’t let human emotions blind him. If only Sherlock could see the way that Molly sees him, he’d be shocked and maybe even fall in love with her. But maybe that’s just me doing a bit of wishful thinking.

“I have something that you might be interested in, though...”

 

* * *

 

“I hope you don’t mind my decision to resign, Molly,” Sherlock says nervously, his hands behind his back and his glasses replaced with contacts in his eyes. “The prospect of being a detective was too good to pass.”

There he was trying to lighten the one-sided tension in his atmosphere; when he comes in that morning to hand in his letter to Molly, he almost walked back out. Nine months after Mycroft offered him a case from France, Sherlock had decided that he liked the rush of adrenaline and the racing of his mind once again – the cases were a little side dish from his job at St Bart’s, and he had made the courageous decision to pursue detecting as a full time job. One reason was that it was exhilarating, much more than preparing samples for analysis and diagnosing tumours, and the other reason was that it paid well, meaning that Mycroft could stop breathing down his neck.

“Sherlock, I’m the one who told you to continue the detective work,” Molly states in a light, humorous tone. “I saw how excited you were when you got back from France, you were rambling about how the clues stacked up and how beautifully the connected, it was only a matter of time before you left the hospital and actually started detecting.”

“So you don’t mind?”

Molly smiles up at him, a genuine, full of pride and joy smile that makes him radiate with sunshine and unicorns. “Of course I don’t, Sherlock. You were made for greater things, you go save the world and all that.”

He smiles in admiration at her; he had been planning a speech explaining his choices (honestly, he kept me up sometimes because I was inching for any indignation that would admit his undying love for her), his departure and begging for her understanding. Also, he was so completely wrapped up in his speech that he didn’t even realise her support and her trying to push him out of the lab as much as possible. For someone so brilliant, he was remarkably thick.

“And you’re always welcome at the labs, just make sure that Doctor Highmore is alright with it,” she adds and continues on with her work. “I honestly don’t know how I’m going to do this by myself now, I might be here for hours trying to prepare the tissues.”

He smiles, because for once, he feels wanted. And he was going to miss working with her, but as long as he was working beside her, he thought he could live with that. Over a year of having worked together for hours on end on tissues, blood, and the occasional dead body, Sherlock admits to himself that he will miss their little moments but also confesses that he would like to see her outside of her profession (he had seen her at Christmas parties, office birthdays and took her out for a Panini on her birthday but still, he would have liked to have seen her as not a pathologist).

“Might have to look around for another assistant, but not too brilliant, you might forget about me,” he adds in a joking voice. It was endearing to watch two emotionally constrained people have a joke; it was almost like watching two butterflies fly away from their cocoons.

“Forget about you? Please,” Molly continues, her voice as light as his, “Someone who could tell what everyone had been doing that morning is hardly forgettable.” She smirks up at him before returning to her work, and the left side of his mouth turned up in amusement.

 _Sherlock Holmes’ thoughts:_ **“In all my 31 years of living, I have been searching for a place to rest, and I strangely find that my home is in Molly Hooper. More to add.” ******

"Also, what happened to your glasses?"


End file.
